


Willing To Wait For It

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5181758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need you to date me,” she says, in a rush, and adds “Just for like, a week. Tops.”</p><p> “Is this a test?” he asks, finally. It’s really the only explanation he can think of that sort of makes sense. “Like a friendship test?”</p><p>Clarke frowns. “How would this be a friendship test? If anything you should be annoyed with me right now.”</p><p>Bellamy shrugs. “Maybe that’s a part of the test.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing To Wait For It

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I started this wanting to write something about a dairy farm, because I live on one, and it turned into this. (fyi, that magnet thing is legit.) So here, have all the tropes!
> 
> Title from Hamilton, because Kristen has ruined my life.

It’s just six in the morning when Clarke waltzes into Bellamy’s kitchen, which wouldn’t be that unusual, except as far as he knows she didn’t even have any morning calls out his way.

She’s also dressed in her pajamas and oversized muck boots, so he just pours an extra cup of coffee and waits for her to explain.

“I need you to date me,” she says, in a rush, and then downs her piping-hot coffee like a tequila shot. She winces, predictably, and adds “Just for like, a week. Tops.”

Bellamy sips from his mug for a moment in silence, still not at all sure what’s going on. “Is this a test?” he asks, finally. It’s really the only explanation he can think of that sort of makes sense. “Like a friendship test?”

Clarke frowns. “How would this be a friendship test? If anything you should be annoyed with me right now.”

Bellamy shrugs. “Maybe that’s a part of the test.”

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head, and then heads towards the press for more coffee, even though he’s _positive_ she’s already burned the roof of her mouth beyond hope. “Only you,” she mutters, clearly to herself, and then tosses a piece of paper at him.

It falls short, of course, since it’s paper, and lands somewhere in the middle of the room, so Bellamy crosses over to collect it.

“Alpha Academy?” he reads. It looks like one of those newsletters always tacked to the bulletin board of the town’s general store. Everything gets a little clearer when he skips past the stock photos of people smiling, and reads the bottom. “Class of ’05 reunion?” He glances up to find her staring pointedly at her coffee, not looking at him. “Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he teases, and she (predictably) looks up, outraged.

“I’m _twenty-six_ ,” she argues. “You’re thirty-one—big deal. You’re still the child in this relationship.”

“Oh, burn,” he grins, and then wets his lips a little. He’s not sure she even caught her own slip. “So, this is already a relationship? I haven’t even said yes, yet.”

Clarke’s eyes go wide, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy smiles, reaching over to get the chocolate milk from the fridge, which he knows she likes in her coffee. “You know I’m going to say yes. I’m assuming that’s why you asked me.”

“You’re the only one I _could_ ask,” she points out, sagging against him. “Thanks, Bell.”

He ruffles her hair a little, because the moment feels altogether too serious, and she scowls, flinging the curls back in place. “You could have asked O,” he muses. “She’s the more sociable one, anyway. She knows what to do at parties. I’m just the grumpy farmer that doesn’t like anyone.”

“Maybe I like unsociable grumpy farmers,” Clarke grins up at him. “ _I’m_ an unsociable grumpy farmer.”

“Nah. You smile too much. Not enough grump.” He grabs two of yesterday’s eggs, and starts frying them on the stove, while Clarke perches herself on the counter, because she likes to be higher than everyone else in the room. “So why don’t you just go alone or something?” he wonders, keeping his voice light so she won’t get spooked. “If you were _really_ unsociable, you’d just go alone. Or you wouldn’t go in the first place.”

She stays quiet, so he risks a glance, and finds her staring into her drink like it might hold the answer. “It’s going to sound stupid,” she grumbles, and he grins down at their eggs.

“You showed up at my house in bedhead and pajamas,” he points out, and she glares at him. “Assume it can only get better, from there.”

Clarke sighs, stretches her back until her spine pops and he shudders at the sound, because she _knows_ he hates that. “I wasn’t very well-liked at high school,” she admits, and for a moment Bellamy’s left waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“That’s it?” he asks, and she scowls, so he gives his most unimpressed look. “Princess, you were Homecoming Queen at your high school. I’ve seen the pictures. It’s why I call you _princess_.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t _popular_. Just not well-liked.”

Bellamy fetches two plates from the cupboard, and dishes up their eggs. He’d thrown some bacon in while she was talking, and the last of his English muffins. “I’m not following.”

She hops down and follows him to the table, to begin picking at her breakfast. “Okay, so—for Senior Superlatives, I got Most Likely To Succeed.”

“Well you did skip a grade,” he shrugs, and she nods a little.

“Yeah, and so I wasn’t upset about that, or anything. I didn’t even really care about superlatives, you know? But then my class went and made one of their own, just for students, and in _that_ one, I got Most Likely To End Up Alone.”

She’s still not really eating, just moving the food around on her plate, until Bellamy sets his fork down with a little more force than necessary, and she jumps.

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, because he can’t really help himself.

Bellamy met Clarke when she was twenty-four, and straight out of veterinary school, new to town and unsure of herself. They didn’t really get along at first—he’d been working his family’s farm since he was born, practically, and Clarke was fresh from the city—but she was the only big animal vet for five counties, so they learned to make it work. And honestly, she helped him a lot, not just with the cows. Octavia was just leaving for college, and so Bellamy had to do twice as much work on his own, because his sixteen year old farmhand Sterling was going back to school. And one of his heifers had just swallowed half a pack of nails, and he couldn’t afford the surgery to get them out of her before they’d tear through her intestines.

He was desperate, and a little emotional because the cow was one of his favorites, when he called Clarke in the middle of the night. But she’d come anyway, with a fifteen dollar magnet from Target, which she slipped down Vesta’s throat without much fanfare. She didn’t even charge him, and for once it didn’t feel like charity. It felt like a break.

That was when the coffee-and-breakfast started. Bellamy lived a good twenty minute drive outside of town, and Clarke had seven acres right at the edge of it, so whenever she had to make one of her longer calls in the other counties, she’d stop by on the way. Sometimes she’d stop by on the way back, and help him bring the cows in, and then she started forcing him to take her to the smaller farmer’s markets that didn’t make the papers, which was nearly every weekend. And eventually they didn’t need any excuses at all, to be friends.

“They weren’t exactly _wrong_ ,” Clarke shrugs around a mouthful of muffin, and Bellamy frowns. He’s not really used to this Clarke, self-conscious and embarrassed. Even when she had no idea what she was doing, she always acted like she did, until it was true.

“They’re definitely wrong. You’re this fucking awesome, gorgeous girl who’s made something of yourself. And I bet you were the same at sixteen, so the fact that they couldn’t see that—you clearly went to school with a bunch of teenage idiots.”

Clarke ducks her head, but he can see she’s flushing. “They weren’t all bad,” she admits with a slow smile. “And I was a bit of a know-it-all back then, so.”

Bellamy grins as she stabs at the last of her bacon. “ _Back then_?”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” she says primly, and carries her plate to the sink. “You’re right, you know—I’m fine with not being in a relationship, I am, and I could go alone or just not go at all, but.” She worries her lip a little, and starts on the dishes. Clarke likes to clean when she’s stressed. “I just don’t want them to be right.”

“They’re not right.”

She makes a face. “I don’t want them to _think_ they’re right, then.”

“Clarke Griffin are you asking me to fake-date you _out of spite_?” Honestly, it’s probably his favorite thing she’s ever asked him to do. The only thing that would make it better is if she wanted to date him for real.

“Yes,” she sighs, defeated. “So will you?”

“Absolutely,” he grins, pressing a kiss to her cheek on his way to the mud room. “This, I have to see. I bet you were a cheerleader.”

“I was _not_ ,” she snaps, draining the water as he tugs on his boots. “Do you want help with the milking?”

Bellamy tosses her an extra sweatshirt, because it’s April and still cold in the mornings. “You’re here, so might as well, right?”

Clarke shrugs it on until it swamps her, hanging at her knees, and shrugs. “Might as well.”

The reunion isn’t for another week, so Octavia comes to visit before they leave. Her school’s only four hours away, and she just got her first car after saving up her financial aid, so she tries to visit the farm every weekend. But sometimes she has finals, or a dress rehearsal she can’t miss, or the mini refuses to start, again, so Bellamy doesn’t get to see her as much as he’d like.

“Hey big brother,” she calls, stepping out of her ridiculous car. It’s two-wheel drive, which Bellamy hates on principle. There’s no way it’ll hold together through an upstate winter.

“Look how big you’ve gotten,” he teases, and she makes a face. “You’re almost at my shoulder, now!”

“Fuck off,” she snaps, and then ruins it by giving one of her jump hugs—latching both arms around his neck and dangling until he gets sick of dragging her around, and just pries her off.

“How many cats this year?” she demands.

Bellamy has a couple of barns on the property, and sets out some bowls of dry cat food in each for the strays, to keep the mice and ground squirrels out. Octavia’s always been attached to them, insistent that she can tell them apart and giving them names. When she was a kid, she used to go around and collect up all the kittens, matching them to the moms.

“Less than last year, now that you’re not sneaking them tuna,” he grumbles, and she kicks him before heading off to check on her favorites.

“So what’s up with the princess?” O asks, pouring herself a second bowl of caldereta. Bellamy’s ninety percent sure that for the rest of the year, she lives off jars of discount peanut butter and energy drinks.

She’s gotten a lot less subtle about Clarke recently; probably because she knows soon she’ll be moving to a different city and getting a full-time job, so she won’t have as much time to pester him about his love life, in person.

“She’ll stop by tomorrow to see you,” he shrugs. Clarke likes to let him have Octavia to himself for the first day, which is nice, but—he’s positive that if she hasn’t just forgotten to eat dinner completely, she’ll have a few of those mini Ritz packets and call it a meal.

“Yeah, that’s not what I asked,” O smirks, and he kicks her under the table.

“Don’t be a brat,” he grumbles. “How come you never ask what’s up with _me_?”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Because Clarke is the only interesting part of your life. Go ahead, then—tell me what else is happening in the world of Bell.”

“You were never this dramatic before acting school,” he frowns, and then thinks the question over for a moment. “Aerecura doesn’t have that bladder infection anymore,” he says. O looks unimpressed.

“Fascinating,” she deadpans. “Seriously, what’s up with Clarke? Usually you have a million stories—Clarke did this weird vet thing, Clarke did that weird vet thing, Clarke took in _another_ sheep, Clarke stuck her hand in an alpaca’s butt. Are you guys fighting or something?”

She looks _actually_ concerned, and she’s not wrong, anyhow. Clarke usually is the only thing he has to talk about, because—aside from a few regulars at the markets and Miller, who runs the cheese factory Bellamy supplies—she’s really the only person he interacts with.

“No, we’re not fighting,” he sighs, and then he tells her, because it’s not like she won’t find out eventually. He’s going to be gone for a week; she should know why.

“This is either the dumbest idea ever or the most brilliant one,” she decides, when he’s finished.

Bellamy frowns. “Why? It’s just a favor.”

Octavia blows an enormous raspberry in his face, and then splashes him with dishwater for good measure. “ _A favor_ ,” she says, clearly disgusted with him. “Have I failed you? All those rom-coms you watched with me, and you somehow still don’t understand what fake-dating leads to?”

At Bellamy’s blank stare, she sighs. “ _Real dating_! It _always_ leads to real dating, Bell, _god_.”

“Octavia, it’s going to last one week,” he says skeptically. The thing is, he _does_ remember those movies, every single one, but. Life isn’t a movie, is it? People can’t just run down a New York City highway, or miraculously catch a free cab to beat their true love to the airport. It doesn’t work that way.

And besides, Clarke is the most pragmatic person he knows. If she wanted to really date him, she would have just asked him out by now. So Bellamy can’t let himself hope this trip might lead to anything more than an awkward night around her old classmates, and maybe a lot of minibar shots. If he does, he’ll just end up disappointed when it doesn’t.

“What if the hotel is booked and you have to share a bed?” O muses.

“Then we’ll share the bed,” Bellamy shrugs. “Or I’ll ask for a cot. Hotels have cots. I don’t know why they never ask for a cot, in the movies.”

“She’ll probably wear a dress,” she says, waggling her eyebrows. “She’ll get all dolled up, and you’ll realize how hot she is, and you won’t be able to help yourself.”

“I already know she’s hot,” he argues. “And the idea that guys can’t help themselves because a girl’s too pretty is asinine.”

“You might have to kiss her in front of all her friends,” she warns. “To prove your love, or whatever.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that actually happens in real life. When have you ever seen a bunch of people ask a couple to kiss for them? That seems actively creepy.”

O clicks her tongue and flicks him on the temple. “Fine, be an idiot. I’m gonna go use up all the hot water.”

When Clarke shows up the next day for dinner, it’s with her suitcase, since they’ll be leaving early the next morning. Her school is three states away, which doesn’t tend to mean much in New England, but Monday’s the start of Easter Break which means there’ll be traffic, and O’s agreed to watch the farm since she has the week off of classes, anyway.

“I’m still missing rehearsals though,” she says, so they know she’s sacrificing a lot for them.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Noted.” He turns to Clarke. “Do you want her to look after the sheep, too?”

“No, Harper said she’d stop in every morning,” Clarke shrugs. She doesn’t have an actual _farm_ , so much as a very big garden and a bunch of sheep she bought from a nearby farmer who’d won the lottery and was planning to sell them to a butcher and move to Ecuador.

“Oh, how is she?” O asks, and then adds “Harper, not your foster sheep.”

“They’re legally adopted,” Clarke says primly. “Harper’s good. She won the blue ribbon in the cabbage contest.”

“Cool,” Octavia says, a little awkward. Bellamy knows it’s probably hard on her, being the only kid from their town to leave home. Most of them are only born to act as free labor on the family farm; they’re not actually expected to do much else. Even if she were to call up her old friends, they probably wouldn’t have much in common anymore; there’ll always be that rift between them, that Octavia got out when they didn’t.

“O, what plays are you doing this semester?” Clarke asks, and he shoots her a grateful smile, so his sister won’t see. She’s always been good with her.

As expected, Octavia perks up immediately. “Okay, so we’re really focusing on Tennessee Williams,” she starts, and they settle in to listen.

Clarke spends the night in what used to be his mom’s room, but has since been refurbished to be as bland a guest room as possible, and she stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, with squinty eyes and her hair in a bird’s nest. Bellamy just bites back a grin and hands her some coffee—secretly, he likes sleepy Clarke best.

 Octavia doesn’t bother waking up to see them off, having already said her goodbyes the night before— _Have fun, losers! Love you!_ —so all there is to do is get dressed and eat breakfast, which ends up taking a considerable amount of time because Clarke keeps falling asleep in her food.

Eventually he manages to shuffle her out the door and tuck her into his Jeep, with her messy curls piled up on her head and her gigantic Nyan Cat coffee tumbler in both hands. “I can drive first if you want,” she says around a yawn, and Bellamy can’t help laughing.

“Strangely, I don’t feel like dying before we even get there,” he teases, and she squints up at him, clearly doing her best to glare, but she’s too tired for even that.

“Fine,” she sniffs, and promptly falls asleep against the window, coffee still in hand.

She only naps for three hours before waking up, chugging her lukewarm coffee, and promptly demanding a snack break.

“We just ate breakfast,” Bellamy points out, and Clarke frowns at him.

“Our bodies need a _lot_ of calories, Bellamy. I went to medical school.”

“You went to _vet_ school,” he argues.

“Yeah, and human doctors only need to learn _one_ animal,” she points out. “There’s a Shell, pull over.”

She comes back out carrying so many hostess and Lays bags he’s worried she’ll topple over, with a bunch of magazines about states she’s never even been to. She collects them, and keeps them in an old potato crate in her bathroom to flip through.

“Let’s go,” she says, like it wasn’t her idea to stop in the first place. She kicks her feet up on the dashboard, and opens up an issue of _Our State: Nevada_ , stuffing an entire ho-ho in her mouth.

“You’re a disaster,” Bellamy says, but it sounds more fond than anything, and she grins over at him with chocolate on her mouth.

“Takes one to know one.”

They reach the hotel in seven hours—seven and a half, really, but Bellamy likes to round up—with only two bad traffic jams on the way, and six road tolls, which Clarke pays with little rolls of nickels she keeps in her purse.

“It was my idea to take the trip,” she snaps each time he goes for his wallet, and so eventually he just stops trying. It’s not like he _wants_ to spend all his spare change. Besides, he pays for the coffee they get at the gas stations, so he figures they’re about even anyway.

The hotel _is_ booked, with just one queen sized bed left, so Bellamy asks for a cot, like a _normal_ person.

Clarke yawns into her elbow and flops down on the bed as soon as they enter the room. She drove the last three-hour stretch, and if she feels anything like Bellamy does right now, her brain’s probably ready to leak from her ears.

“We could have shared, you know,” she says, voice muffled by the comforter. Bellamy shrugs and sets his cot up by the window. It’s one of the generic ones, and doesn’t look very comfortable, but he’ll manage.

“You’re a blanket hog,” he teases, and she tosses a pillow at his head.

“Mind if I use the bathroom first?” she asks and when he shakes his head, she grabs a change of clothes from her suitcase and then shuts the door behind her, while he changes into a pair of sweats.

So far, Bellamy’s pretty sure the whole fake-dating thing must be blown out of proportion. Sure, he wants to sleep with her, and make out on a hotel bed, but. He’s been in love with Clarke for the better part of two years, now, so it’s not like that’s anything new. And he’s not overwhelmed with the need to tell her, or anything. Loving Clarke has always been relatively simple; it’s just _there_ , just another thing about him.

When he checks his phone, he finds a bunch of texts from Octavia that are nothing but ridiculous pick-up lines, so he sends her a picture of a wet sloth, in revenge.

He’s still looking at pictures on google, when Clarke comes back out, looking soft and wet and clean. She smells like the flowery soap hotels stock, and he thinks maybe he decided too soon, that he wouldn’t be affected.

Clarke curls up on the bed with a book, tucking her legs under the sheets before waving him over, shoving all the extra pillows away to make room.

“I need to show you who’s who,” she explains as he slides in beside her, and he realizes she’s holding a _year_ book, which she has open to the senior page.

“Any exes I need to watch out for?” he grins, and she makes a face.

“I was voted _Most Likely To End Up Alone_ ,” she says, unimpressed, and he sobers a little, stretching an arm out to tug her in close.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “They’re a bunch of dicks.”

Clarke hums a little, and points at a picture of a stoic brunette. “That’s Lexa. We went to Homecoming together, but she didn’t want anything serious that would distract from her studies.”

“What was she voted?”

“ _Most Likely To Become A Hitman_ ,” she says, not missing a beat, and he snorts.

“Sounds like a charmer.”

“She had her moments.” She moves her finger to a guy wearing a puka shell necklace, which makes Bellamy hate him on principle. “That’s Finn. We went out for a couple of weeks until I found out he was also dating the basketball captain,” she points to a Latina girl. “Raven. Everyone hated me for a while, after that.”

“Bunch of dicks,” he repeats, and she laughs, snuggling into his side. They don’t really _do_ this, but—it can probably stay platonic. Friends cuddle, and Bellamy’s pretty affectionate in general, so Clarke’s used to it by now.

And she’s probably feeling a little like her high school self, vulnerable and attacked, so it wouldn’t be fair to try anything anyway. She’s probably emotionally compromised, or something. He can’t risk that.

“This is Mr. Wallace,” she says, and he sees she’s skipped a few pages, to the Staff & Faculty bit. “He was my favorite—he used to give me all the old art supplies the school was replacing.”

“Good to know you had some friends,” he says, and he even means it.

It’s hard to look at Clarke, at who she is today, and think there was a time when people didn’t flock to her. For as long as he’s known her, she’s been easy to like. It took her almost no time at all, to find friends when she first moved to his tiny farm town. She knew everyone’s first names, and how old their kids were, and she’d drop by whenever she could to check up on their horses or hogs or goats, just to make sure. She started a book club at their one-room library, for Christ’s sake—it’s hard to think anyone could dislike her. Even when he’d pretended to, he didn’t, not really. He was just annoyed that everything—farming, and friends, and work—seemed to come so easily to her, like she was hardly putting any effort in.

And now, hearing that she was ostracized for being smart, for believing a boy when he lied to her, it makes him genuinely want to go back in time and punch himself in the face.

“My best friend was Wells,” she says, and he sees an entire page dedicated to a dark-skinned boy with a bright smile. There’s a picture of him and Clarke, awkward with puberty, with their arms around each other, holding a Styrofoam solar system. “He died when we were sophomores. Encephalitis.” She doesn’t sound as sad about it as she might have, once. Mostly she just sounds resigned. “He got _Chicken Pox_ ,” she scoffs. “He was in bed for a week. I made fun of him for it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he says, and she leans her head on his chest with a sigh. He’s not sure why she never told him—if she thought she couldn’t, or if it was too hard. He wonders if she ever would have, if the reunion hadn’t come up.

“I know,” she agrees. “One in three thousand adults die of Chicken Pox every year.” It’s the kind of fact you only know for a very specific reason, and she rattles it off without pause. “His brain swelled up while he was sleeping. It was all very _painless_ ,” she makes a face. “But what the hell does that mean, you know? I mean, how are they so sure he couldn’t feel it? A swollen brain sounds fucking painful to me.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke.” He knows it’s not the right thing to say, because those words never made him feel better when his mom died. But he doesn’t _know_ the right thing to say. He’s not sure there is one, some magical phrase to make it all better.

“It’s no worse than your mom dying,” she shrugs. “Or my dad. People die, and people we love die, and it sucks.”

“Yeah.” Her breathing’s getting even, and her head lolls down on his stomach, so he slides the yearbook into his lap.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up he’s curled around Clarke under the comforter, with the lamp still on, and the yearbook hanging half off the end of the bed. Everything is coated in the pale light of early morning, and there’s still frost on the window, so it can’t be very late.

“So much for using your cot,” she teases, voice hoarse from sleep, but she makes no move to roll away from where she’s burrowed her way into his chest.

“Yeah, you drooling on me is way better.”

She tips her head back, studying his shirt for any wet spots, and then frowns at him when of course there aren’t. “Liar.”

He grins, tucking a tangled clump of curls behind her ear. Clarke will never have the type of hair that looks neat in the mornings. “What time’s your lunch?”

The former student council members are meeting at the local Chili’s, before the reunion, and Clarke was Class Secretary, apparently because no one else wanted the job.

She makes a face, and grabs for her phone, charging on the end table. She tries to stretch without moving away from him, and huffs when she still can’t reach. Bellamy laughs, and rolls on top of her a little to snatch it.

“Eleven,” she reads with a sigh. “We should probably get dressed.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m liking the look you have on right now,” Bellamy muses, eyeing her too-big Berkley shirt and zebra striped shorts. Clarke flushes, and rolls away.

“Yes, but society dictates that I have to wear a bra in public,” she shrugs, and then smirks when Bellamy chokes on absolutely nothing, because—he really, really did not need to know she wasn’t wearing a bra while she was pressed up against him. Honestly, he’s not sure why he’s surprised; if he was a girl, he wouldn’t wear a bra to bed, but. He just hadn’t let himself think about it, and now he can’t stop.

She grabs some clothes and heads into the bathroom while he’s still floundering on the bed, and he finally shouts after her “Fuck the patriarchy,” and hears her laugh echo against the tile.

When she comes out, she’s wearing a pair of soft jeans and one of those button-down shirts she has in every color, that show off her breasts. Strategically speaking, it’s a good choice for making the assholes who ridiculed her in high school jealous.

Her hair is still a mass of curls down her back, but she’s finger-combed in a little, and pulled the front back like usual. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until she chirps “You’re turn!” and grabs her phone, flopping back on the mattress to check her email.

Bellamy is not actively creepy enough to jerk off in the shower while Clarke’s in the other room, but it’s a very close call. There’s no way she’d _know_ , but—yeah, it’s still too creepy, so he speeds through the process and hops out in record time.

When he steps back in the room, Clarke’s waiting for him, bending over to put on some sort of shiny lip gloss in the hall mirror. She sees him in the reflection, smacks her lips, and grins. “Ready to go?”

“You want me to come to the lunch with you?” he asks, surprised. He’d assumed she’d want to go alone, as some sort of one-woman army thing, and then show up with him at the reunion so they could divide and conquer.

Clarke frowns a little. “The whole point of you coming was to prove I’m not alone,” she points out, and he feels like an idiot.

“No, yeah, you’re right. Just, uh, let me get changed.” She shrugs and goes to wait downstairs, and Bellamy stares at his suitcase doubtfully. He’s brought more than enough pairs of jeans, but they’re the ones he wears on the farm, with holes in the knees and torn hems. He brought his only suit for the reunion, but it’s not exactly Chili’s wear.

In the end, he picks the least mangy jeans he has, with threadbare knees that haven’t torn through yet, and a thin sweater. He spends more time than he probably should, messing with his hair in the mirror, trying to make it sit right, before finally giving up. He still doesn’t really look _nice_ , not like Clarke does, but. It’ll have to do.

But when he finds her in the lobby, she beams up at him, reaching out to loop her fingers through his, like it’s no big deal. Like holding hands is just a normal thing they do, which, he supposes, is what it’s supposed to look like.

The Chili’s is just down the block from the hotel and when they get there, Clarke asks about a table for Woods, the last name of the former Student President, Anya.

They’re the last to arrive, as it turns out, and Bellamy recognizes a few faces from the yearbook—Finn is there, as Class Treasurer, and Lexa, the Vice President, along with three people he doesn’t recognize, who he assumes are their dates.

Clarke nods to each of them, and everyone seems pleasant enough. Introductions are made, and he nearly startles when she calls him her boyfriend, but manages to school his expression in time. They probably should have run lines with O, or something, to prepare.

Finn’s date is some guy named Murphy, who generally seems like he doesn’t want to be there, but holds Finn’s hand under the table. Anya’s husband is named Nyko, and Lexa’s dating a girl named Roma, both of whom seem nice. Everything seems very _nice_ , and very shallow. The whole lunch is filled with small talk, catching each other up on the things that matter, but not really _speaking_ about them. It feels like the conversational version of a yearly Christmas newsletter.

They ask polite questions about his farm that he’s used to from city people, and Clarke passes her phone around so they can look at the pictures of her sheep, whom she’s very proud of, and talks about constantly.

“I never would have pictured you running a sheep farm,” Lexa says, and it’s clear she doesn’t _mean_ anything by it, not really, but Clarke tenses up all the same. It’s the tone—dismissive. Like she thought Clarke could do better.

Which makes Bellamy feel strangely defensive too, because—if Clarke could do better than a sheep farm, then obviously she could do better than some small town dairy farmer who made his living off of cheese.

“Yeah, I thought you’d be out saving the world or something,” Finn smiles. “Too good to mingle with us mere mortals.”

“Clarke’s the only big animal vet in all of southeast New Hampshire,” Bellamy blurts, and flushes a little when everyone turns towards him, surprised. “I personally know of at least a hundred animals she’s saved singlehandedly, including some of mine. And these animals are what keep people like me fed, and in business. Some of those farmers, if Clarke hadn’t saved their livestock, they’d be out of a job. Their families might be out of a home. So, if you think about it, Clarke _is_ saving the world, at least a little. Maybe not in a way that everyone knows about, but I believe people can save the world in little ways, too. I know she saved mine.”

Finn gives an awkward cough, clearly embarrassed, but the rest of the table stays quiet after his outburst. Bellamy sneaks a glance at Clarke, to find her staring back at him, eyes wide and watery, which is the last thing he wanted.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Roma beats her to it.

“Well, that was the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she grins. “Like something straight out of a movie.”

Bellamy chokes on a dry laugh, because—how is this his life, seriously?

He starts to turn back to Clarke, to apologize, or something, since he basically just lectured all her old classmates. But as he turns, she leans in, to kiss his cheek, he’s pretty sure, and her lips press up against the corner of his mouth with no warning.

Somehow, it’s easy for him to keep calm, because it’s not like the kiss is _real_. It’s out of gratitude, or maybe to keep their cover. She probably hadn’t even meant to kiss him on the mouth.

But she lingers, humming a little so it vibrates through his skin, before pulling back and blinking up at him with a slow smile.

 _It’s not real_ , he tells himself, even as he can still feel the imprint where her mouth was. Even though when he licks his lips, he can taste the fake peaches from her lip gloss.

Anya asks for the check, and then pays for everyone, since she’s apparently some big-name lawyer in Georgia now, and can afford this sort of thing.

Bellamy still chips in on the tip though, just in case the others don’t give twenty percent.

Clarke doesn’t speak on the walk back, and so he doesn’t either, but she keeps hold of his hand tightly the whole way, which he’s pretty sure is a good sign.

She flips on the TV when they get to the room, changing the channel until she finds an _X-Files_ marathon on TNT, and then calls room service to see if they have popcorn.

They do, and she orders two bags before hanging up.

“I thought you’d take me around, to see the sights. Where you grew up,” he muses, and Clarke looks over at him, a little skeptical.

“Do you _want_ to see the sights?”

He shrugs. “I figured you would. Don’t you miss it?”

Clarke turns back to the television. “Not really. It’s—my mom moved to Seattle for work, after I graduated. So I haven’t been back since high school, and everything is different, now. This hotel wasn’t here, last time, and everything was just—smaller, I guess. I wouldn’t know where to take you.”

Bellamy nods, understanding. Just because his hometown seems to be stuck in the same moment forever doesn’t mean the rest of the world is. He wonders what it must be like, feeling like her home isn’t really hers, anymore. He wonders if she thinks of the farm town as home, now. He hopes she does, anyway.

She’s still not actually talking to him, just staring intently at the screen like she hasn’t seen this episode a million times before, so he takes out his phone to text O.

He says _Clarke kissed me on the mouth_ , because he likes to make his sister suffer. And then _but we’re still not dating._

Octavia texts back immediately, with a lot of random letters and generally positive emoticons, which he’s assuming means she approves. There are a lot of exclamation points.

Then she must get his second message, because she types back _u disappoint me always_ , which strangely makes him feel better about the whole thing.

Clarke’s on her phone beside him, probably checking her e-mail, when he gets another text from his sister.

_she says u told her friends she saves the world?? how are u still failing @ this_

“Are you texting my sister right now?” he asks, and Clarke looks over at him, startled.

“Maybe,” she says, defensive, and he grins.

“You’re texting her about me,” he teases, because—it means something, he’s so sure. It _has_ to mean something.

“She’s such a traitor,” she grumbles, tossing her phone down in disgust. “You raised a tattle-tale.”

“I know,” he agrees. “I’m the one she used to tattle on. Why are you telling her about me? You know I’m right here, right? You can get it straight from the source.”

Clarke’s neck and cheeks go blotchy, and it takes him a moment to realize what he’s just insinuated.

He’s about to apologize—or maybe not, maybe he’ll just finally, _finally_ tell her—when there’s a knock on their door. “Room service,” someone calls, and Clarke leaps up from the bed.

It’s their popcorn, in matching glass bowls, and Clarke nearly hits him in the face when she tosses his over, before curling up with her own tucked between her knees, eyes straight ahead on Scully as she gives birth to an alien baby.

Bellamy frowns—she’s still emotionally vulnerable, he knows, and he still doesn’t want to chance it, but he wishes she’d at least _talk_ to him. Things have always been easy between them. He doesn’t want that to stop.

So, like any mature, responsible adult looking for relationship advice, he turns to his baby sister.

 _She won’t talk to me about it_.

 _u 2 exhaust me_ , she sends back, followed by _have u tried asking her out?_

_No. I don’t want to pressure her._

_goddammit bellamy stop assuming she KNOWS how u feel she is an emotional baby just like u TELL HER before u turn my hair gray w ur disaster of a life!!!_

He starts sending her camel emoji’s because he has no better response, and she must just turn her phone off at some point because she doesn’t text him again.

“We should get ready,” Clarke says, and Bellamy’s startled to see it’s almost five o’clock.

He has spent the last four hours texting his sister camel emoji’s and ignoring his emotions, which is frankly a new record for him.

Clarke pulls something blue and silky from her bag and disappears into the bathroom, and Bellamy gets dressed on autopilot, buttoning his shirt, and checking his trousers for wrinkles before starting a new game of Spider Solitaire while he waits for her to finish.

He doesn’t look up right away when he hears the door open, partly because he’s really close to finishing a level, and partly because he knows that when he does, he won’t be able to look away.

Finally, when the virtual confetti starts, he slides his phone in his pocket and glances up, and _actually_ does a double-take, because he has no impulse control.

He’s starting to understand why O felt the need to warn him.

Clarke’s wearing a dress he’s never seen before, midnight blue, and so shiny it reflects the light each time she moves. It has little spaghetti straps, and a tiny slit up one thigh, and her hair is sleek-looking, and perfectly combed back. She has fancy makeup around her eyes, and bright red lipstick that he wants to lick off.

“I didn’t know you _had_ a hair brush,” he says, slipping off the bed. “I’m used to regular old bedhead-you.”

Clarke grins back at him, expectant. “Don’t worry—I’ll be regular old bedhead-me, tomorrow.” But she sounds a little resigned about it, so he steps in close, and reaches out to tug a straightened curl.

“I like your bedhead,” he says, low, and she’s almost pressed against the wall now, looking up at him with those impossibly blue eyes.

But not like she wants him to stop.

“How long do we have before we need to leave?” he asks, trailing his hand down her neck so she shivers. She glances over his shoulder at the clock, and gives a wry half-smile.

“About five minutes,” she says, like a challenge, and he grins back.

“Plenty of time,” he says, and then kisses her.

 _This_ is the kiss, the movie kiss, the one that has her moaning in his arms, grabbing at his hair and back and shoulders, like she doesn’t know where to touch first, like she’s worried she won’t have time to touch everywhere.

“Fuck,” he says, when they pull back, breathing hard and smiling wildly, like they don’t know how to stop. “ _Fuck_ ,” he kisses her again, and she laughs. “We could have been doing that instead of watching that stupid fucking show,” he tells her, and she pokes him in the side.

“That show is a classic,” she chides, and then tries to pat her hair back down in the mirror. “You ruined it,” she accuses, and he grins, thumbing at the ends.

“I don’t know what you mean, I think it looks great.”

She makes a face. “You would. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Alpha Academy looks like any generic high school modeled after a Frank Lloyd Wright house would, he supposes. Lots of glass and metal. It’s very—cold. Nothing like the tiny brick building he learned in.

There’s a table just inside the door, where everyone’s writing their names out on those paper sticker nametags. Clarke grabs a marker and writes GRUMPY FARMER in her neat cursive, slapping it on his chest, before handing him the marker with a grin.

He names her PRINCESS in big block letters, and carefully sticks it to her dress.

The actual reunion looks more like a middle school dance, held in the auditorium, with cardboard cutout stars dangling from the ceiling in the school colors blue and silver. There’s a giant slideshow on the stage, with pictures recycled from the yearbook, flipping through the same two dozen frames over and over. _High School Never Ends_ by Bowling For Soup is playing in the background, as someone’s idea of a joke.

There’s a punch bowl filled with strawberry wine cooler. It’s all very PG.

“So, get drunk and make fun of the decorations?” he suggests, and Clarke high fives him.

It’s a little hard, though, to do anything when he knows they could be potentially making out, instead.

They’re on their third—maybe fourth. Wine coolers are hard to keep track of—when someone says “Clarke, it’s lovely to see you.”

Bellamy recognizes the old man as Mr. Wallace—his hair’s white instead of the gray from his picture, but he looks roughly the same. Clarke beams and hugs him, before waving a hand at Bellamy.

“Mr. Wallace, this is Bellamy, my—my Bellamy.” Her cheeks are flushed, and she may have had more than just four cups.

“A pleasure,” Mr. Wallace says, shaking Bellamy’s hand, and it takes him a moment to realize the old man is wearing a janitor’s uniform. “You’ve got yourself quite the special lady.”

Clarke flushes and leans into Bellamy’s side so he has to wrap an arm around her. “I know,” he grins.

“Hello everyone,” There’s a piercing noise through the speakers, and they wince. Anya frowns at the microphone onstage, as if glaring it into submission. “Welcome to the Class of 2005 Ten-Year Reunion. We are all very glad you could make it tonight, and would like to start things off by saying a few things about someone who should have graduated with us, and should be here with us tonight.”

Beside him, Bellamy feels Clarke tense up a little, staring up at the stage as a picture of Wells Jaha fills the screen.

“Wells Jaha died tragically young,” Anya continues, “But his best friend Clarke Griffin is with us tonight, and we would be honored if she would share a few words in his memory.”

Bellamy reaches for Clarke’s hand, squeezing it just once, before she gives him a shaky smile and heads up to the stage.

When she reaches the microphone, her back is straight, and her head is high, like she’s daring the crowd to say she doesn’t belong there. Finally, she speaks.

“Wells was my friend since we were kids. Since before we were born, practically, since our moms met in the same pregnancy class. We used to joke about making our secret handshake in the womb—” Everyone chuckles, and she waits until the room is silent again.

“Wells was a lot of things. He was kind, and clever, and open—but most of all, Wells was loving. He loved so much, and so selflessly, and that was very important to him. Love was very important to him. But it wasn’t enough to save him, which is a lesson, I think, we never learn until it’s too late. That sometimes, the people we love will leave us, and it won’t always make sense. And it’s easy, to let the fear of that loss control you. But Wells was a lot of things, and afraid wasn’t one of them. And he wouldn’t want that for us. He’d want us to love, whomever and whenever we could, and as much as possible.”

She takes a shaky breath, and keeps going. “Someone I love very much said he believes people can save the world in small ways, and I think that’s true. I think Wells saved the world, with what little time he had. And I think we owe it to him, to keep that legacy going. To keep saving the world, even if it’s in little pieces. I think that would be enough.”

Nobody claps, because it’s not the sort of speech you can clap for. But everyone is quiet as Clarke walks back down the stairs. Everyone is still listening, even though she’d done.

She doesn’t hesitate before burying her face in his neck, and Bellamy brings her in without a word, letting her breathe for a moment.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, and she nods before pulling back. Her fancy eye makeup’s a little smeared from tears, so he brushes the smudges away, and presses a kiss to her hair. “Come on princess,” he murmurs, taking her hand. “Show me all your fancy rich school trophies.”

She gives a watery laugh, and tugs him out into the hall, empty now except for the table, with just a few scattered nametag slips and uncapped markers drying out in the air.

There are the usual glass cases that most schools have, and they stop at each one, reading the names on the plaques, with Clarke pointing out the ones that she recognizes.

There’s a picture that catches his eye, and he smirks down at her, nodding at it. “You told me you weren’t a cheerleader.”

“I wasn’t,” she sniffs. “I was on the dance team.”

Bellamy laughs, shaking his head as she leads him further down the hall. “I can’t believe you were best friends with the janitor,” he teases.

“I _told_ you about him!”

“Yeah, but you said he gave you art supplies. I thought he was the art teacher, or something.”

She makes a face at him. “That’s what you get for assuming,” she says, and then tugs him inside a closet.

“Is this where you took all your dates?” he asks, grinning as she leans up to kiss the skin under his jaw.

“I told you, I barely even dated,” she says, pulling back, and he can just see the crookedness of her grin in the shadows. “But John Hughes taught me well.”

“Was this whole thing some elaborate ploy to get me to go out with you?” he asks, and she laughs, ducking her head against his chest.

“Fake dating _always_ works, Bell,” she says, and kisses him. He grins against her lips.

“Just like a movie.”


End file.
